


Dem Bones

by Dryad



Series: The Shadows; Where Softly Steps the Light [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1859, 19th Century America, AU, Gen, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 02:52:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11682507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: Now hear the word of the Lord:"Thou dost believe indeed that I will abandon them. That shall not happen; but do thou let them carry out their intention according to their pious dictates, and tell them nothing".~ Ezekiel, The Book of EzekielSmythe stared at him for a long time. "I want you to become an agent on the Underground Railroad."John barked a laugh. "Sorry, you what?"





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Annnnd we're back in the main time line.
> 
> To reiterate: While the entire work is under the aegis of The Shadows, Where Softly Steps the Light, all of the Dark Lamp stories are background information. The main timeline does refer back to those events, though I think I've written them so that *you* don't have to read them if you don't want to. But I recommend it, because I personally think it rounds out both the characters and the story all that much more.
> 
> Eventually I will restructure, but not until the entire thing is done. There's a ways to go. 
> 
> My edit was fast and dirty, as the next story is going to be posted later (as late as possible) today, and you needed to know some things. I _think_ I got the majority of spelling errors and notes to myself out, but you know how the eye can miss things...
> 
>  
> 
> What's happened thus far:
> 
> Sherlock has arrived in America and is on the trail of Moriarty and Moran. John is now living with Harriet and Clara, and all of them have gone to Virginia to visit Clara's family, whom she hasn't seen since she married. John is shocked by the condition of slaves on Shambleau, Clara's family's plantation, and this is where he is introduced to the Fever.

"This is Dr. Smythe - "

The elderly gentlemen in the subdued, dove gray evening suit nodded once, graciously, lifted his cup to his mouth to blow delicately upon its steaming contents.

"And here we have Dr. Robbins - "

Robbins was young, with long, shoulder-length fair hair and bright blue eyes, the kind of man any woman would want for her fairy story husband.

"And of course, Dr. Collier, I believe you met him at the court house, yesterday - "

The gentleman did indeed look familiar, but at this stage John couldn't have picked him out of a crowd of one, for all of the people Mr. Abrams had introduced him to in the last ten minutes. 

"Dr. Thomas is well known in the area for his brilliant work in dentistry, should you have any teething problems, we highly recommend him - "

Thomas was a man with glorious hair and unbelievably smooth skin, and when he smiled, he showed a perfectly white set of teeth. John found him a little creepy, but then he found all dentists creepy, and for good reason.

"Finally, we have our much esteemed colleague, Dr. Johnson, not of course to be confused with _your_ Dr. Johnson," said Mr. Abrams, sweeping his arm out to Dr. Johnson, who looked to be only slightly older than John. 

"Delighted to meet you," Dr. Johnson had a robust hand, and a grip like iron. 

John, still recuperating from Mr. Abrams comment regarding "his" Dr. Johnson, didn't even try to squeeze the American Dr. Johnson's hand with anything more than the lightest of touches. Honestly, he could care less what his position was within the Medical Society. So long as he had access to books and bodies and the opportunity to view new techniques in surgery, he was happy. "Same."

"Will you partake of some truly excellent port?" asked Dr. Johnson, motioning towards the sideboard to the right.

"I will, thank you," John said, smile falling from his face as soon as the odious man was behind him. Of course, that wasn't precisely fair. He was in a bad mood because of what Stuart had told him just before he had come into the club; Mrs. Nilsson was having her fourteenth, and would John mind coming when called? Dr. Johnson's reputation as a surgeon was good. Apparently he was a fan of chloroform and used it extensively in his practice. Privately, John thought that was a good way to have a practice with a high turnover. He would stick to ether until something better was invented.

Port in hand, drinking it even though it he found it always too sweet, he wandered around the room, admiring the painted landscapes, the bookcases and books therein. Mr. Abrams really did have the most marvelous collection of books, the best John had seen in private thus far. He was so engrossed in the display of Mr. Audubon's first volume of work that he completely forgot he was with other people, and thus was startled at loud voices behind him.

"I say, sir, that it is unconscionable to use subjects in such a manner!" 

Dr. Johnson was holding up a placating hand at Dr. Smythe, who was red-face and frowning. "They are available, my dear sir, and can have no objections that can only ultimately uphold the welfare of not only their race, but of our own."

Curious, John drifted closer, noticed the other gentlemen doing so as well, until they were standing in an impromptu circle.

"Only good can come of this, William," said Dr. Johnson. 

Dr. Thomas set his glass on the nearest table, shook his head vehemently. "It pains me that you do not understand your own Hippocratic oath, sir! That you fully intend to continue your, your _experiments!_ But that you actually think it's for the greater good!" Turning to Mr. Abramns, he continued on in the same vehement tone. "Crispin, I cannot in good conscience remain here when I need to help the very people he has harmed! Good day, sir!"

With that, Dr. Thomas walked out, nodding towards John once. John wasn't sure what they had been discussing, but Dr. Johnson seemed very amused, while Dr. Robbins and Mr. Abrams simply raised their eyebrows and went back to their own conversation. 

Dr. Johnson caught John's eye and smiled. "I hope you'll forgive William for his outburst. He has a tendency towards coddling his patients. Which reminds me, I understand this is your first visit to the Society?"

"Yes, I was invited by Mr. Abrams a few weeks ago, but this is the first opportunity I've had to actually come to one of the meetings."

"Ah, you're English! Welcome to our fair shores. Have you been here long?"

"Thank you," said John, wondering why his accent was such a surprise. He could walk any of the streets of Boston and hear foreign tongues. Why, he had overheard a smattering of Hindoostani just the other day "Yes, I've taken over my brother-in-law's practice while he's away."

"Oh yes, Dr. Watson - ah!"

John nodded. "I know, an odd coincidence, that my sister should marry a man of the same name as ourselves."

"Indeed!" said Dr. Johnson. He smiled, then sobered, putting his hands behind his back. "I hope you won't take William's words to heart. My work is very important to me, and genuinely does have scientific merit."

"Oh?" said John, with an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid I don't know anything of your research."

Dr. Johnson immediately brightened. "Have you not? Pray tell, have you heard of the Rye Protocol?"

John shook his head. 

"No? Shame, you should familiarize yourself with it immediately. If you like, I ca- "

"Jack," said Dr. Robbins, coming around Dr. Johnson's side, and putting a hand on his elbow. "Let's not bother Dr. Watson with such talk when he's only been here ten minutes. Besides, dinner's ready."

Dr. Johnson chuckled. "Oh, of course, of course. My enthusiasm gets the better of me, I'm afraid. Perhaps we can discuss it after our meal."

John dutifully followed the others in to a small, informal dining room with a table that seated six. Halfway through a most excellent dinner that included duck confit and a superb trout, he was finally able to relax. The dinner was the result of a chance meeting with the uncle of one of his patients, Rose Wilcox. Mr. Abrams had been impressed with John's diagnosis of Puerperal Fever based on his niece's previous pregnancy, and even more impressed with his insistence upon the washing of hands and clean cloths before anyone touched her, that upon the successful birth and subsequent good health of his grand-nephew, he had invited John to dinner with several other medical men he knew and favored.

Mr. Abrams was right; the men he knew were at the top of their game, and had read up on the latest techniques and methods. Like John, they were users of ether, and were wary of the new anesthetic, Chloroform. John had seen too many patients die from it to use it himself, at least not until there was a better method of delivery than sniffing it from a cloth or an open bottle. Yes, it was effective, but it also killed the patients who used it, which was a bit of a draw back.

They reached the cheese and nut plate, the sliced fruit, and, to John's surprise, a syllabub, before Dr. Johnson attempted to draw John back into conversation about the Rye Protocol.

"It's a new method of discovery _and_ of surgery," he said eagerly.

Dr. Smythe sat opposite John, and John couldn't help but note his pursed lips and irritated glances at Dr. Johnson, seated to John's right. Mr. Abrams was at the head of the table, and Dr. Robbins sat between him and Dr. Smythe, with Collier bringing up the other end.

"Must we discuss this at the dinner table?" asked Dr. Smythe, tapping one finger against his water glass.

"And why not," answered Dr. Johnson. "Dr. Watson might perhaps be interested in learning about Dr. Rye's work for himself, don't you think?"

"I should hope not," grumbled Dr. Collier.

"Let me speak, and Dr. Watson shall decide for himself, shall you not?"

Caught by the conflicting mood of his fellow guests, and a wish not too offend before he heard all the facts, John nodded. "Go ahead, tell me."

"In short, Rye's Protocol uses Negroes as the templates for surgery and discovery. Instead of using cadavers, why not use the bodies of living people to adjust and reframe our understanding of medicine? The young, the infirm, the aged, all of these can be used as templates for regular people. Already we have discovered which medicines work better at specific doses, and Dr. Sims's work on post-prandial women is extraordinary, absolutely extraordinary. Already there have been discoveries on how little, if any, ether or chloroform can be used, and how effective it is upon which method of delivery. There will need to be more research, for Negroes of course don't feel pain and suffering as we do, but I believe we are off to a good start. Now, there are some good people who have objections to said use of Negroes, but they are easily replaceable, whereas our own wives and daughters, sons and fathers, husbands and mothers are not. In my own experiments I have discovered that Mulattoes and Octaroons are much closer to our own sensibilities than those whose ancestors have only recently come from Africa. If I may be so bold, Dr. Watson, I could hardly dare wish you would join us in our endeavors in this regard. The research is promising, very promising, and we need all the medical men we can find to continue on."

John took a sip of wine, patted his lips dry with his napkin. "I hardly know what to say, Dr. Johnson."

"Say no, Dr. Watson!" Dr. Smythe leaned back in his chair, somehow drawing himself up at the same time. "This travesty of a Protocol is inhumane and un-G-dly! To treat another of G-d's creatures, slave or not, is beyond any morals or ethics that could possibly stand!"

Dr. Johnson frowned and sat back as well. "Dr. Smythe is unwilling to envision a future in which the Negro is of sound body and mind, wherein we do not have to do these things to them. You are a good doctor, Stephen, but I cannot countenance what you are willing to do in the name of medicine."

"I confess I am not inclined towards unnecessary medical procedures, Dr. Johnson," said John. "Not even in the name of research, and particularly in the case of people who do not have the freedom to say no."

Mr. Abrams was nodding. "You know how we all feel about this matter, Stephen. I very much doubt you'll find many sympathisers outside the Irish in Boston."

"That may be, but I will continue to gather more people to my side."

An uncomfortable silence fell, then Mr. Abrams was stirred to action. "Mrs. Harper has excelled herself with tonight's meal. Would anyone care for coffee?"

"None for me, but I will have some of your whisky. The Dalmahoy fifteen was an excellent vintage," said Dr. Robbins, looking around the table with raised eyebrows.

"As will I," said Dr. Johnson, his smile pleasant, but to John's eyes he looked disappointed. 

For his part, John was amazed that the conversation in the room began to flow a were as normal. He was half-outraged and half-incredulous. He felt the need to escape from the personal aura of Dr. Johnson, who otherwise seemed to be a most pleasant and knowledgeable man, whose ideas were absolutely incendiary and quite frankly, smacked of Dr. Frankenstein, monstrous and horrible. "If you'll excuse me, I must stand up and exercise my leg. It pains me greatly in this weather."

"And you a doctor!" crowed Dr. Collier, to no one's amusement.

John smiled only with his mouth as he rose. An old joke, and one he was of hearing. Hobbling back to the parlour, he stretched mightily once he was alone. G-d. Yes, it had been a good meal, but he was tired, not only physically, but of the company as well. He wanted to go home and rest, maybe read for awhile, then sleep. And sleep, and sleep. In the meantime, however, he had the rest of the evening to get through. Perhaps no one would mind if he took a short break, however. He scanned the shelves, found many books he was aware of, others with which he was completely unfamiliar. He scanned their spines and gave a little "Ah!" of surprise. Next to a thick volume of Samuel Taylor Coleridge was more popular literature; Mr. Dickens, Mr. Trollope, Mrs. Barton, Miss Sedgwick, and an untouched copy of Gray's Anatomy. In the madness of those last weeks after Cawnpore, John had mislaid his own copy of excerpts from Gray's. He missed it.

"Don't take Dr. Johnson's words too much to heart, Dr. Watson," Dr. Smythe said in a low tone, approaching John from the left. "He's a good man, but utterly blind to the evil he is participating in."

"Evil?" John pondered for a moment, then nodded. "I saw things in my military career that I would never have thought men were capable of, so it shouldn't surprise me that men outside of war would do much of the same, albeit for different reason, and still justify their choice."

"I'd thought you might see the matter as I do."

"As _we _do," said Mr. Abrams walking into the parlour, Collier and Robbins behind him. "A patient has need of Dr. Johnson this evening."__

__There were raised eyebrows at that, by which John took understanding that the 'patient' might not exist. "Dr. Johnson clearly has strong opinions on the matter," he offered._ _

__Dr. Robbins settled in a chair. "If there were any scientific research suggesting it was a feasible course of action I might be inclined to agree with him, but it's patently ridiculous."_ _

__"Inhumane!" Smythe bellowed. He shook his head. "Stephen should not be allowed to practice medicine, nor call himself a doctor. All that he does is butchery, pure butchery!"_ _

__John continued his slow tour around the room, listening to his fellow doctors speak on the matter. He was glad to be one of their company, rather than Johnson's. The idea of using Negroes was utterly abhorrent in medicine, with no justification whatsoever._ _

__If they could be used such, what was to keep anyone from suggesting the Irish be next, or Indians, or Chinamen? Why, his own Mary -_ _

__John shook his head and turned back to the company he was supposed to be enjoying._ _

__"New discoveries are being made every day, just look at Dr. Pasteur, or Dr. Marce. Even Dr. Livingstone has contributed to the field of Geography," said Dr. Collier before clamping his mouth around his pipe stem._ _

__Mr. Abrams smiled benignly at them all. "Yes, well. All of modern science starts with observation as the least of its duties, and given the current political clime, we shall see what kind of results Dr. Johnson gets."_ _

__"We'll all have to prepare ourselves for more than steady work, I fear," answered Robbins, shaking his head. "I fear a war is coming our way, and we'll have no choice but to engage it whether or not we want to."_ _

__"I wish I didn't share your cynicism," said Abrams. He crossed his legs and leaned on one arm of his chair. "But I think you're right. Dr. Watson, you're only recently to these shores, what do you think?"_ _

__John shrugged. "I've been to war on two continents, and you're right to be concerned. Stockpile what medicines are rare and have your bags ready to go at a moment's notice. Bring your relatives up here if they're willing."_ _

__"Little chance of that," murmured Robbins. "Though in the case of my mother-in-law, I find that perfectly acceptable."_ _

__There was a ripple of amusement which John did not join. He did not know if Mary's aunt and uncle had made it through the rebellion, and quite frankly he did not care. "War is a dirty business, gentlemen. I wouldn't wish it on anyone."_ _

__The discussion turned to politics completely after that, which somehow led to John discussing his time in India. He kept his mentions of Mary brief and too the point, and Abrams, who was also a widower, soon steered everyone onto the topic of current literature._ _

__John was greatly relieved when the evening was over. He had been looking forward to it, too. Apparently he simply was not ready to rejoin Society, or what passed for it in America, quite yet. It was fine, it was fine. He was happy enough with Harriet and Clara and the children, his day to day business with his patients. His nights were still problematic, although the children slept through the worst of it, thank g-d._ _

__He was halfway down the street when someone called his name. He turned, ready to strike out with his cane should his interlocutor be a ruffian, but by the light of the street lamp he could see it was Dr. Smythe. He paused to allow the man to catch up to him. "Dr. Smythe, I didn't realize we were going to same way, else I would have waited for you."_ _

__"Ah, yes. Well," Smythe glanced at him, half-smiled. "I just wanted to thank you for not participating in Dr. Johnson's scheme. We need all the good doctors we can get in this country, and your reputation has preceded you."_ _

__"Has it? I'm not sure how, no one knew I was coming."_ _

__"Ah, but you see, Boston is a very small town, and word of your arrival came long before you left England. My cousin is in the Army, and your name came up several times in his letters to me," Smythe eyed John with frank admiration. "He said you were a hero in Lucknow."_ _

__John grimaced a smile. "No one was a hero in Lucknow, not during, and certainly not after."_ _

__"I must beg to differ, Dr. Watson," Smythe said confidently. "You saved the lives of seven women and nineteen children. No small feat for a soldier on his own."_ _

__Yet he had not been able to keep his own wife from dying. John stopped walking. "I would prefer not to indulge in memories of the past."_ _

__Smythe nodded. "Never the less, I had to express my esteem. Now, I...wanted to tell you that as a new doctor in Boston, you should feel free to stop by my office at any time with _any_ concerns you might have. I have a _wide variety_ of patients, poor and rich, and _many_ books from which you may consult."_ _

__An odd offer. Smythe was very intent, and placed strange emphasis on some of his words. He was clearly informing John of something, but of what, he didn't know._ _

__"Take my card - " Smythe held out a card he must have been holding in his pocket for just such an occasion. " - and as I said, please don't hesitate to call upon me. Any hour. Michael practically sleeps next to the door."_ _

__"Thank you," said John, taking the card and making a show of tucking it into his jacket pocket._ _

__Smythe nodded again, staring at John's pocket. "Any time, rain or shine."_ _

__And with that, he was off, leaving John frowning in confusion. At a sudden hard breeze from the bay, he shivered and turned towards home._ _


	2. Chapter Two

Weeks passed. John fell into the rhythm of living with family again, and though he and Harriet often fell into their old childhood habits of bickering over nothing, these moments were rare and for the most part he enjoyed her company. Her relationship with her _friend_ , as she called Clara, would appear to be nothing out of the ordinary to most folks. John, however, had seen Harriet fall in and out of love ever since they were little. Yet this time she was different. Perhaps that was because of Eliza and Hartwell, who were quiet, yet happy children. He quite liked them, their enthusiasm for all things medical certainly helping. Mary would have adored them. Unlike he and Harriet, they argued without rancour (mostly) and played together well. Harriet had fully taken to the American convention of caring for one's children, though their servant Jingle also watched them on regularly.

Clara was lovely though, if still young. She played with the children, tutored them, took them for outings with Harriet and John, when he did not have a patient. The most magical part about Clara was that she appeared to be under the same influence of Harriet - if John hadn't seen similar amongst his Army companions, he probably wouldn't have recognised the depth of feeling between the two. When they were all in the same room it became obvious. After watching them surreptitiously for some time, he decided it came down to the way they looked at one another; as if no one else was in the room. Possibly not even on the entire planet. It brought back fond memories of Mary, which also made him sad. She had been the woman of his life, he felt, and no one could ever match her beauty or temperament.

Thoughts of her always made him long for what could have been, which was a dangerous path to take. Hopefully she had not been with child when she died. That last day, he had wanted to ask her, and had fully intended upon asking her upon his return to Cawnpore. G-d, if only, if _only_ he had made her follow him to Lucknow! He had thought her safe in Cawnpore, thought her safe in the garrison, more fool him.

Then she was gone.

The names, the names he had kept. He had come home early one day to find her in the bedroom, dressed only in a fine chemise, writing at the little table she called her desk. The way she had smiled when he entered the room, which ended in a hasty coupling on the bare floor and bruising on their knees. She had loved it, loved him, and though time and illness had dulled the ache, he still felt he was missing a phantom limb.

And so he still had the names, _Hugh_ and _Miranda_ and _Samuel_ and _Leila_ , because he had tucked the scrap of paper into his pocket while she was cleaning up, fully intending on reading it and gently mocking her later on. Of course he had been called to Lucknow that very night, and only read the paper days later. Before his return to Cawnpore, and the discovery of what had happened at the Bibighar. The smell - John pressed the back of his hand against his nose, trying to stem the memory. It was no good, the horror came rushing back for long moments until he forced himself up and out of the chair and into the bright sunlight of the street.

John gradually came to enjoy Mr. Abrams and his compatriots. He found he did not care overmuch for Dr. Johnson, who appeared to join Abrams's dinners less and less over time. It seemed to John that everyone promptly became livelier, too.

He started making the rounds with both Collier and Thomas and Smythe, learning more about dentistry in the process. Not a subject he would ever care for, but he liked being a well-rounded physician. Besides, one never knew what kind of doctoring a person might need. Smythe, in particular, was a very interested in esoteric medical fact. He read all of the great journals, and requested copies of academic papers to the point where John didn't know how he had time to read _and_ perform his duties. 

Gradually, very gradually, John became aware of a preponderance of negroes in Smythe's practice. They did not necessarily sit by the office, stoicly waiting their turn, they were just...around. Neither Smythe nor his servants invited attention to the fact. Which was definitely odd. While there were plenty of black people on Boston, and many of them, probably two thirds, if John had to wager a guess, were free men and women. There were plenty of slaves about, too. Some were only passing through with their masters, while others were going to market in the south. Telling them apart was not as easy as one would assume. If asked before arriving in America, John would have assumed the free men would dress in their finest, as any free man would, while the slaves would be in chains. To his surprise, it was not clothing that made the man so much as attitude.

And he got that wrong often enough, too.

So eventually he had given up trying to figure it out. Except now, because his curiosity was piqued. One night, eating a pleasant dinner of boiled ham, cabbage, carrot and potato, he asked Smythe his opinion.

Smythe sat back in his chair and wiped his mouth. When he finally looked at John, his gaze was grave. "You are no abolitionist, John."

"No. My sister and her friend are, however. I'm very familiar with the literature, and have heard more speeches on the subject, both public and private, than I care to recount."

Smythe smiled grimly. "Yes, I'm sure. My question to you is, how you really feel about slavery."

John sighed. "I think it is foul to use a human so."

"And?"

"My sister's friend has a slave. She inherited her upon the disappearance of her husband, who has some years to go before being declared dead. She's already told me her plans to release Jingle as soon as she is able, and I have no doubt she will."

Smythe nodded, folded his hands over his belly. "Are you worried this Jingle will be collected by the Irish?"

"I hadn't given it that much thought, to be honest. I don't see why they would take her, she's only a small woman, not a giant man with muscles."

"Is she young? Can she bear children?"

"I presume so."

"Than can you not see how attractive she might be to the Irish? They could snatch her off the street and sell her in Rhode Island, Virginia, even Connecticut and you would never know!"

"I suppose," answered John, frowning. He knew neither Clara nor Harriet sent Jingle out after dark, and they always made sure she had a letter explaining where she was going and why. He had thought them over protective, because this was Massachusetts, Vermont and New Hampshire and Maine to the north, Connecticut and Rhode Island and New York to the south and west, all of which had banned slavery for some years. 

Smythe nodded slowly, seeming to come to a big decision. "John, what would you do if a slave came to you and asked for your help?"

Taken aback, it took John a moment to answer. "Do? It depends."

Raising an eyebrow, Smythe took a sip of port. "Upon?"

"Well," John rubbed the back of his neck. "Do they need medical attention? Are they coming to see Jingle? Or Clara? Are they running an errand for their master? I won't know until the moment arrives."

"What if they wanted your help to escape their master? Would you give them coin? Food? Clothing? Or merely send them on their way?"

The truth was that John had already made up his mind, he was just prevaricating in case Smythe turned out to be not quite what he represented himself to be.

"Can I trust you?" asked Smythe, leaning one forearm on the table. 

"Of course!"

"You say that, but I'm putting my business and professional standards in front of you, John. It will be yours to destroy should you want to."

John shifted in his seat. "Perhaps you'd best not, then."

"I think I want to. More to the point, I think _you_ need to hear it. You need to trust yourself again, be the man you were before..."

_Before Cawnpore_ , was the unspoken admonishment. 

"I need your help, John."

And that was the other thing about Americans, how many of them felt free to use one's name in over familiarity!

"I believe you are a good, decent man and a brilliant doctor. I know you're still grieving your wife, and I understand that - "

How could he, when he had never been married? John shook his head in denial.

" - but from what little you've told me of her, I think she would want you to do this as well."

No, she would not. Mary would want him to be strong, and capable, and she would look at him with those large black eyes and smile that gentle, understanding smile, and he would throw himself at her feet and beg her for mercy because he was not worthy of her love and adoration. Because it was her faith in him that made him want to live up to her expecta - oh g-d. He wearily rubbed his forehead. "What is it you want me to do?"

Smythe stared at him for a long time. "I want you to become an agent on the Underground Railroad."

John barked a laugh. "Sorry, you what?"

"Become an agent, Dr. Watson. You're a doctor, people are used to seeing folks come in and out of your practice, they're prepared to see negroes as well. You're already known for treating them, though obviously not in the same way. Your patients are ordinary people, people who want treatment for their pain, and you offer respectability. No one will suspect you of helping others in less obvious ways."

John was not convinced. He treated anyone who showed up at his door, yes, because he was a doctor and that was what doctors did. Getting more involved, in a more or less official capacity - there were Harriet and Clara and the children to think of, too. They already dabbled in Abolitionist literature and meetings, though they did no 'speechifying' as Clara called it. Still... "I'll have to think about it."

"Take as much time as you need," replied Smythe, gently pushing John's glass of port closer to him. "Know this, however. We need good men such as yourself in the movement. It is neither moral nor just, what we do in the name of G-d, to our fellow human beings. People will do more for a horse being whipped in the street than for a slave having done the same, on the same day, in the same place. "

True enough. 

"Why should we not try and free a human being from bondage as well? What is so wrong with our moral character that we behave in such a manner?"

John nodded. "I...in India. I saw things."

Smythe raised an eyebrow in encouragement.

_I did things._ "Terrible things," he said aloud. "After I found my wife, after I found Mary - " _The pieces of her. The necklace she often wore, that he had given to her on a whim on the way to Cawnpore. A pretty bauble of carved ivory. Clutched in one golden-skinned hand removed from the rest of its body._ He smiled mirthlessly. "People went mad."

Smythe was good, he did not react at all as John laid bare his soul. "I've never been to war, but I can only imagine what the results of seeing such things must be."

Gulping down his port in three swift swallows, John managed to regain his equilibrium. She must have been terrified. Even in death she had not let him go, grasping the necklace as if she could magic him there to protect her and her alone, because g-d's honest truth was that he had not cared about any other woman or child in the garrison but her. 

He regretted nothing of what he had done after, _nothing_.

"Have you spoken to Abrams about his new idea?" Smythe cut a piece of cheddar from the block, speared a slice of sweet pickle from the crock. "No? A collaborative of doctors sharing information all the way out west to California. We can hear about new treatments and new diseases long before they reach the papers."

"A sound idea," murmured John. Mary would have approved. "Yes, a very good idea."

"I'm glad you agree. We'd like to have you aboard as one of the founding members. Your experience in the Crimea and India, as well as London, will be the biggest boon we could have at this juncture."

"So...how does it work?"

Smythe quirked both eyebrows. "Hmm?"

"Being an agent."

"Ah, yes. You'll be a station master. Your station is a place where someone goes to catch the next train. You'll have food, and a place for them to rest. When passengers arrive, they'll come to you and tell you they have a ticket. You won't know when the next train is leaving, only that someone will come and tell you the details. Alternatively, you can bring your train to a different station, the name of which would be provided to you."

John waited a beat before frowning slightly. "That's it?"

Smythe ducked his head. "And that's it."

"But how will I know everything is above board? How will I know I'm not being set up?"

"You won't," Smythe answered gently. "This is not a risk-free proposition, John. You could lose everything, including your life."

"Yes, obviously." Irritated, John wished Smythe would stop using his Christian name. Despite knowing the man rather well, John had not invited him to such an intimacy. 

"Should anything happen to you, of course your sister and her companion would be well taken care of by the Anti-Slavery Society."

John was not so sure about that, but he did have enough money set aside for both of them. Both of them had monthly stipends as well, though Harriet's was a pittance. 

"What can you tell me about this fever? I keep running into patients who have this strange fever," said John, changing the topic of conversation. "They're sweating, highly fevered. Lasts for days, yet there appears to be no ill outcome. Is it a new strain of Malaria, or some other disease I'm unaware of?"

Smythe shrugged, drew a pattern on the table with two fingers. "It runs through families in various tribes in Africa, and of course when they were brought over here, the disease came with them. Don't worry, it's not contagious."

"Are you sure?" asked John lightly, trying to sound somewhere between interested and bored. "I'd hate for that kind of malaise to spread."

Smythe shook his head dismissively. "There's truly no need, Dr. Watson. The negroes are used to it, and take care of their own. Now, will you think on what I've asked?

Smythe might have thought he'd gotten away with it, and probably with another physician he would have, but John could scent something in the air, a certain defensiveness and deflection. Jingle had done the same when he had brought it up with her. A kind of frozen expression, a quick uplift of the lip, the bland pronouncement of 'African tribes'. No, he did not believe it in the least.

 

~*~

 

John paused, put his ear against the gap. During the brief break in chatter from the parlour, he heard hushed voices were coming through the cellar door. He looked over his shoulder; no one was in view, the card-players oblivious. Quietly, he opened the door and peered into...not gloom. Someone had a lit candle downstairs. Someone had lit a candle in the cellar. Straining, he definitely heard a higher pitched voice. The words were garbled, but he certainly recognized the voice. 

"John!" 

He pushed the door shut and put his back to it. "Clara! Are you having a good time?"

"Oh yes!" she cried, coming down the hall with arms outstretched to grasp his hands. "It's ever so good of you to allow Susannah's friends over. They're having a grand old time, as if you couldn't tell."

"I'm glad. She deserves to have a little fun before her confinement begins in earnest."

Clara looked aghast. "Confinement?"

He laughed at the expression on her face. "I jest, I jest."

She swatted him on the arm. "You had better be. Have you seen Jingle? I was wondering if she could make more punch."

"I'll get her. You go back and tell the young misses that luncheon will be soon."

Clara smiled and gaily trotted back to the parlour as if she was one of the guests. Having visited her home in Virginia, he suspected that her own girlhood adventures in visiting had been few and far between. Perhaps that scandal of her older sister had kept her from having a proper social life of her own. Behind him, the door handle turned ever so slightly. Well, now he could ask Jingle exactly how much punch was left. He stepped to the side and leaned against the wall with folded arms and waited. A few moments later the door slowly opened and Jingle came through, her back to him as she slid to one side to hold the door open.

"Shh," she whispered fiercely. "Into the kitchen - no! This way, into Dr. Watson's office! Hurry!"

Unbelievably, three negroes, two men and a woman, scurried down the hall, followed by Jingle and, unbeknownst to them, John. She fumbled the door open with a key - how did she get a key? - and made the trio go through. It was not until she turned to see if the cellar door was truly closed did she see John. Given her complexion, she could not pale, but it seemed to John that her skin greyed, instead.

He did not enter his office after them. Instead, he went to the kitchen and got himself a bottle of her homebrewed ginger beer. Spicy enough to make his face flush, he was only a third of the way through it when Jingle came into the kitchen.

She hesitated for just an instant, her gaze sliding across his face and away. For his part, he said nothing. In the morning he would check all of his supplies, and if none were missing, then he would consider the strangers none of his business. Even though he was not happy about it, he was not her master, he could not tell her what to do and whom she could see. But from now on, he would be watching.


	3. Chapter Three

Boston was a lively town. There was an edge of lawlessness that London lacked, which John found...refreshing. Refreshing? Was that quite of the right word? All he knew was thathe liked Boston. It was a young town and obviously so, and American mores were looser than what he was used to, being neither the stuffiness of Britain, nor the complete foreign-ness of India. Familiar and different all at the same time. He liked that he could walk to the harbour, he liked seeing the different kinds of people. It was not quite _home_ , not the way that London was, but he could live here for a few years at least, before having to return to London to refresh himself. 

John had just sent Mr. Carmody out the door when Jingle's rapid knock sounded against the door. "Come," he called, opening his diary to record the next patient.

Jingle shot him a quick, odd look as she let his new patients in. "Mr. and Mrs. Gardner, sir."

The Gardners were a handsome couple, their dress clean and pressed, plain and serviceable. In short, they were poor and making the best of it. Mrs. Gardener took a seat in the chair, motioned her husband towards the examination table. "He needs his feet looking to, sir. He's been walking on card for days."

So it was going to be like that. John prepared himself for looks of long suffering from the husband, while the wife discussed his problems as if he was not in the room. Which was exactly how it came to pass. The man was suffering from chilblains as well as worn out soles. However, he well knew that how one looked was not always indicative of one's finances. Interestingly enough, Mr. Gardner's feet were rubbed raw here and there, with blisters on both heels as well as the large knuckle of the big and little toes. The shoes fit his feet well - ah. John nodded to himself. Gardner must be used to going without shoes - which was not going to be possible for much longer, not in Massachusetts. Obviously he had been walking for a long time, too - Mrs. Gardener's accent had a lilt to it that John was used to coming from Clara, though Mrs. Gardener's was stronger. Could they have been travelling from Virginia, perhaps? Or even Pennsylvania or Tennessee? Gardener also had a odd coloring on his feet, for where the soles bet the top of his feet, there was a slightly darker line, as if he'd been walking in something.

John stood up. "At least they're problems easily solved, Mr. Gardener. If you'll excuse me for a moment."

"Sir," said Gardner, glancing at his wife. 

John felt a little trapped with them, and stepped out of the office to ring for Jingle. She appeared within seconds.

"Sir?"

"Jingle, go get my boots, the black pair. And a pair of socks, please."

"Oh, it must be terrible in there if you're dying to get out," said Jingle, looking at the closed door over his shoulder. 

"For g-d's sake, woman, that's not it at all. Go get my boots, the on- "

"No! No, Dr. Watson, they're good shoes!" Jingle hissed, folding her arms across her chest like any good fishwife. "They've only just come back from the shop!"

"They're my shoes to do with what I will," he answered firmly. "Go on, I'll wait."

She shot him a look of pure frustration, but he was not having any of it. Besides, he did not appreciate having his medical expertise questioned, especially not by the likes of her. It took her less than a minute to retrieve them, which in turn made him feel like an idiot. If he had only looked for them himself, their interaction would not have been so sharp. Next time that is exactly what he was going to do. Why he was even bothered about her statement was bothersome in itself. She was only a servant - a _slave_ \- he could sell her tomorrow if he so wished. He always felt uneasy around her, without reason. It did not matter anyway, she had done what he had asked. "Thank you."

Back in the office, John held the boots out to Mr. Gardner. "Here we are, sir. I think you'll find these will be better for your journey."

"Journey?" asked Mrs. Gardner, getting to her feet hastily.

"Yes," he said. "Your husband's feet are so poor due to the amount of walking he's been doing in those boots. They don't quite fit right, and those soles, of course, needed to be replaced. Leave them here and I'll see to it they get repaired."

"Oh, Dr. Watson!" she cried, before covering her face with her hands, clearly overcome by her husband's change in fortune.

"No need for tears," John said, awkwardly patting her lightly on the shoulder. "Now, is there anything I can help _you_ with, Mrs. Gardener?"

She shook her head hastily, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief she had produced from her sleeve. "No, no thank you, Dr. Watson. We are grateful for all the time you've spend on us today."

"Oh...well. Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to stop," he said, wondering what the hell he had just said, and if it meant anything to anyone, anywhere, because it sounded ridiculous.

He and Mrs. Gardner watched her husband struggle with the boots, to the point where when he looked up, John almost knelt at his feet to lace him up.

"Thank you for your trouble, Doctor," said Mr. Gardner, looking at his wife again.

"It was no trouble at all," John said, not about to ask for payment. Yes, he would miss his boots, but Mr. Gardner needed them more than he did. He strode to the door, opened it, ready to call for Jingle, only to find her on the other side of it, tea tray at the ready. John was gratified to see a small, wrapped parcel on the hallway table as well.

"You have an appointment, sir. Cuffee's in the kitchen, waiting to take you there."

John nodded, not quite sure if there was an actual person in the kitchen or not. He had learned that the three females of the household had their own agenda, of which he was not a part, and acted accordingly. So much for him being the head of the household, as Harriet had promised in her letters! He didn't really mind, if he were honest. 

Jingle raised an eyebrow.

"Right," he said, turning back to the Gardeners. "Pray excuse me, my duties take me elsewhere. Good afternoon."

To his surprise, a giant of a black man actually was in the kitchen. He stood up hastily, bobbed his head. "Sir."

"Just let me get my bag," John kept his medical bag not in his office, but in the kitchen, fully stocked at all times. He found it useful as he could grab a bite to eat, or coffee, before he was out the door. He put on hat and jacket, left his cane behind as he often found it a hinderance rather than a help. "Where are we off to, then?"

Cuffee eyed him, then headed to the door. "Mrs. Anderson, sir. She called for you special, said you was the best doctor in Boston."

Interesting. Following Cuffee outside - the man really was huge. John, who rarely felt dwarfed by tall men, felt like a child standing next to him. Outside was a two horse wagon loaded with shipping crates. Apparently it wasn't a medical emergency. Or maybe Cuffee really didn't like his employers. John looked at Cuffee's wrists when he lifted the reins. Yes, there were scars, probably one matching at his neck. On a pretence of looking at something to the side, John noted the cauliflower ear, the split nostril - yes, Cuffee had been through some battles. 

The trip to the Anderson home was relatively long, and the only reason for the wagon, John assumed, was for the collection of the crates. It would have taken him a few hours to make the journey on foot, but he could have done it. They went through several villages, ending up in one with a wide streets and plenty of people on foot and horseback. Many of the houses were in the new Greek revival style, including the one the wagon pulled up to. It was very large home, though not the biggest he had see, a three storey red brick mansion with a double frontage. 

"There you are, sir."

"Cheers," said John, getting down from the wagon stiffly. He grabbed his bag just as Cuffee twitched the reins, quickly stepped back before the wagon rolled over his foot. Little wonder Cuffee was so scarred, if his attitude was so poor. A second later John scolded himself for the thought. Cuffee was no volunteer in the Army who could afford that kind of behavior - gah, Clara's Abolitionist arguments were beginning to send his mind round the bend.

The front door of the house opened just as John reached for the brass knocker. The maid allowed him in with nary a word, taking his coat and hat before motioning him to follow her. 

The inside of the house was exactly how one would expect from the outside; tastefully decorated, colors neither too bright nor too dull, the portraiture in the modern style, the uniformed servants nearly silent on their feet. If John were a different kind of man, he might be impressed. The truth was that after being in the palaces of several Maharajas, John was rarely impressed by ordinary shows of wealth.

The maid brought him to an upstairs office. Seated at the Queen Anne desk was a woman in a floral gown, writing a letter. She did not look up, but continued writing her sentence until it was completed, irritating John no end. Just because she had called him to her home, that did not mean he was _her_ servant. Nonetheless, he stood and waited until she put her pen down before speaking. "Mrs. Anderson?"

"You must be Dr. Watson," she said, standing and offering her hand to shake with a smile that refused to reach the rest of her face. "I understand you're the best doctor in Boston for children, and I wanted to get your opinion on my daughter, Jane. She's constantly complaining of headaches and stomach pains, and says she is too worn out to play with the others. She refuses her tutor and indeed, most food except for sweets. "

"How old is she?" asked John after a hesitation, because he was not aware of ever having a reputation concerning children. Of course he had treated several, but only the children of friends. It was not his main practice by any means.

"Eleven, and quite precocious," said Mrs. Anderson, sweeping by him in a swish of skirt. Her lavender perfume was very strong, making John's eyes water and his nose tickle. "I cannot get her out of bed, and I'm ready to let my personal physician bleed her if necessary."

"Ah," John frowned. "That won't be necessary at all."

Mrs. Anderson took him up a set of stairs, and down a long hall, where without knocking, she opened the last door on the left.

John focused on his new patient, a young girl with a face like thunder, sitting upright in her bed, an open book on her lap. She was pale, with plenty of pink in her cheeks. 

"Jane! You know you shouldn't be reading!" cried Mrs. Anderson, the tone in her voice more embarrassed then worried. She took the book off of her daughter's lap, then sat on the bed. "This is Dr. Watson, he's here to treat you."

The girl's eyes shifted towards John, and oh, she was filled with fear and resentment. John was not all that surprised, he suspected he was hardly the first doctor to have seen her, and if Mrs. Anderson was already thinking of bleeding her...John was going to be Jane's last doctor. He said, "Hello. How are you feeling today?"

Jane shrugged.

"Jane, manners!" said Mrs. Anderson, giving the girl a pinch on her wrist for good measure.

"That won't be necessary, Mrs. Anderson," said John, setting his bag on the nearest chair. He opened it, retrieved stethoscope and rubber mallet. "Jane, if you don't mind, could you swing your legs over the side of the bed?"

"Is that really necessary?" Mrs. Anderson stood, backed away a pace as Jane did as John asked.

"It's fine, Mrs. Anderson. New techniques in medicine."

Jane looked at John warily while he listened to her heart and lungs, checked for swollen glands under her jaw. He tapped her knees to check her reflexes, and finally, palpated her belly. When he was done, he took his time putting his things away, thinking hard about the 'cause' of Jane's illness. He had his suspicions, but he suspected telling them to her mother wouldn't do any good. "Thank you, Jane, you've been an exemplary patient. Mrs. Anderson, would it be possible for me to speak to Jane in private?

Mrs. Anderson's brows drew down. "I am not sure that would be wise..."

"She'll be fine, Mrs. Anderson. I just need to ascertain certain things, and it's not always easy to get the answers with a parent in the room," he smiled his best smile and hoped that would do the trick. It would be fine if she said no, he already knew what the problem was, he simply wanted confirmation.

"Jane?"

Jane, now safely back under the covers, nodded. She was still frowning, but it seemed to John he was not the cause of it, so much as was her mother. 

"All right. I shall be right outside the door if you need me."

Both John and Jane watched Mrs. Anderson leave, waiting for the door to click shut. John pulled the chair over from the desk and sat down, folded his arms and crossed his legs. He wanted her to understand he wasnot going to hurt her. They looked at one another for a minute longer, but John was the first to break. "Now, what would you like to tell me."

She shrugged again and began to pick at her fingernails.

"Jane," he said gently. "You and I both know you're not sick. Why don't you tell me why you want to be alone, and we can go from there?"

Jane's face crumpled as she balled up her little fists and slammed them down on top of her thighs. "I hate her!"

"Who do you hate? Your mother?"

Jane nodded.

"Can you tell me why?"

"She made Papa go away!" 

Jane kept her voice low, but John could still hear the outrage and sorrow. "And that makes you sad?"

Jane nodded and began to cry, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. John took his handkerchief and handed it to her. "You miss your father very much."

"Yeah...yes, sir."

"I can understand that," he lied. "Fathers are very important when you're growing up."

"He used to take me fishing, and got me sweets and hot chocolate! And he got me little toys whenever he had to go out for work!"

John nodded sympathetically. "And now, do you get to see him very often?"

She shook her head. "Mother won't let him in the house. She says he's a bad influence, she says he has no moral character but she's wrong!"

John nodded again, recrossed his legs. "Do you think you'd feel better if you could see him on a more regular basis?"

"Yes!"

Switching tacks entirely, he asked, "Does your stomach still hurt?"

She thought for a moment, slowly shook her head. "My headache's gone, too."

"I thought that might happen. I have an idea, but I'll only ask with your permission. I'd like to talk to your mother about you seeing your father more frequently."

Jane bit her lip, then said, "She won't let me!"

"Well, let me see what I can do. In the meantime, you need to get up and about, get some fresh air. I know your father wouldn't like to hear that you'd been ill, and couldn't come to see you."

"You think that would make him sad?"

"I _know_ it would make him sad,"

Jane sniffled a bit more, then solemnly offered the handkerchief back to John, which he declined. "You keep it. Let it remind you of our conversation."

She smiled, a little tentatively, but it was enough for John. "I'll go talk to your mother."

Mrs. Anderson was in the hallway, pacing back and forth with her arms crossed. She glared at him as he closed the door to Jane's bedroom. "She'll be fine," he said. "Make sure she gets proper food, not just broth and toast. She should get some fresh air as well, every day, at least twice a day."

"Anything else?"

John managed to not let his irritation show. "She needs her father. The sooner the better. He is, quite frankly, the person who's going to improve her health the most."

Mrs. Anderson mouth turned down as if she smelled something foul. 

"Mark my words, Mrs. Anderson, if you don't let your daughter see her father, she will only continue to pine away for him. Or worse, run away."

After looking him up and down, Mrs. Anderson drew herself up and sniffed, almost ridiculously so. "Your fee is on the table down stairs. Thank you."

John almost laughed in her face. If she really thought he was going to be intimidated by her, she was utterly wrong. Without responding to her, he returned to the bedroom and packed up his bag, winked at Jane, collected his fee, and headed home.

 

~*~

Autumn was knocking at the door before John heard the Anderson name again. It was random happenstance. He was on the way back from the library, having read the latest papers from England, catching up with the news from abroad, when he came across a scene of total mayhem. One minute he was simply walking down the street, minding his own, the next thing he knew he was knocked back onto his arse. The man laughed and dashed away, leaving John flat on his back, halfway in a puddle of piss and horse manure. Piercing whistles cut the air and John curled up, hoping the feet he could hear pounding against the ground weren't about to trip over him. 

The feet passed him, and then someone slowed and stopped next to him, wheezing a bit. "Mate, you all right?"

John cautiously straightened, saw the hand extended to him, grasped it and let it pull him to his feet. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, I think," Lestrade eyed him, not quite smiling. "Dr. Watson. Sorry for the mess, Georgie Markham's the best of a bad lot and as you can tell, he's still pretty shit."

Disgusting as he felt, John huffed a laugh. G-d, he was soaked through. He gingerly held his jacket away from himself, but it was a lost cause. He needed to change, and that was that. And take a bath, even though it was not his day for it. 

"Why don't you come back to the station, get cleaned up there," suggested Lestrade. "Can't have our doctor catching a cold now, can we?"

"You sound like you speak from experience," John said, catching an odd tone in Lestrade's voice.

"Well, y'know. When I worked out West I ran across so-called doctors who would be mere butchers back home. Seriously, I think some of them actually were butchers for all the talent they had at stitching a person up, and I mean that in the medical sense, not the criminal one. One fellow up and died on me when I needed him the most."

"Just how long have you been in America, anyway?"

"A few years. Came back East when the job was done," Lestrade pushed through the double doors of the station. He led the way through a short hallway, through another set of doors into a small foyer with a uniformed man behind a half-wall and two benches along two walls. Corridors ran to left and right. Lestrade waved at the man, then pointed his thumb at John. "Jonesy, this is Dr. Watson, he's with me from now on."

Jones looked at John, flicked back to Lestrade, nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Jonesy's new, has a penchant for sticking to the rules," said Lestrade. "Haven't been able to cure him of it yet."

Lestrade motioned at the wardrobe in the far corner of his office. "Help yourself. Both Anderson and I are taller than you are, but I'm sure you'll find something suitable and quite frankly, everyone will appreciate you wearing something, anything else."

John snorted and did as he was bid. He left his soaked clothes in an out of the way pile and relished being dry, if not clean. It would be worth it to stink a little less, at least for the immediate moment. "Thank you. I wasn't looking forward to walking home in that get up."

"You live around here, right?" said Lestrade, frowning at a slip of paper on his desk. "For g-d's sakes, Winthrop, learn to spell."

"Beacon Hill," muttered John, staring at a framed letter on the wall that appeared to be from the Queen. "Is this really from the Queen?"

"Ah, yes, that," Lestrade bounced up from the desk and joined John in staring at the letter. "That business out West. Wasn't working for the Boston Police then, was I."

"Right," John eyed the taller man, wondered just who in the hell he was and what he had done to merit such an item. And then to display it at his job? In America? The colonies that had rebelled from Britain within living memory?

Before he had a chance to ask, a shout and then a scream echoed down the corridor. John acted without thinking, racing out of the office with Lestrade hot on his heels. 

John followed the sound down the hallway to where it branched, joined the other cops running that way. He found himself going down an ill-lit stair way to a dank hallway that in turn opened up to the cells proper. There were six cells, each filled with men either craning to see what had happened, or ignoring the fracas in the last cell entirely. There were only two lamps in front of each cell, so it was difficult to see what was happening. "Let me through, I'm a doctor!"

"Christ, he's killed me, he's _killed me!"_ someone yelled.

John pushed his way through the increasing crowd of police men to the metal bars of the cell. Inside the cell a group of men were pressed into both far corners, while in front of the cell door a man lay on the floor, blood spurting through his fingers from a wound on the inside of his thigh. His presumed attacker was strutting about the cell dressed only in a filthy vest and trousers. Blood was spattered on the front of his vest and dripped down his chin; his nose was offset. 

"All right, Charlie, step back now!" said the lead officer, truncheon in hand. "Get the damned door open, Winthrop."

Winthrop was fumbling with the keys, trying to keep an eye on Charlie as well as insert a key into the lock.

"For g-d's sake, Winnie," muttered another cop, taking the keys and doing the job himself. He pressed back as the first cop cautiously went inside.

"He said I couldn't do it!" crowed Charlie. "He said I was too weak! Too little! He said the Lord G-d himself couldn't make me do it!"

Too little only in his own mind, thought John as he slipped behind the first cop to see to the man on the floor.

"You'll hang for this, Charlie! Now get on the floor before I make you get on there."

"You won't take me alive!"

More cops were piling in to the cell, leaving John free to tear the wounded man's trousers and make a tourniquet. He bound it tight, so tight it was likely the man would lose his leg, but better than that losing his life. "I'm Dr. Watson, what's your name?" he asked, ignoring the scuffle to the side.

"Jake - Jake Williams! He's killed me, Charlie's gone and killed me!" Jake grabbed hold of John's shirt collar and pulled him down close. "You tell my ma and pa I love 'em! Tell 'em I didn't go down without a fight! Tell 'em - "

He went impossibly white and collapsed. John cursed out loud, felt for a pulse. It was hard to tell, but he thought he could still feel it, albeit very faintly. He could not see it at the base of Jake's throat, either, the light was too poor and now there were shadows as the cops used their truncheons on Charlie, beating him down, the thudding rhythm of the blows a quick counterpart to the pace of John's heart. "Get my patient out of here!" he cried, ready to haul a few cops away and make them take Jake upstairs.

Jake was hauled out once Charlie was no longer resisting. John thought he had not been resisting for some time before the cops stopped hitting him, and judging from the glimpse he had got as he left the cell, chances were high that Charlie unlikely to be moving any more at all. There was a certain boneless-ness to a dying body - John shook his head and forced himself to think of the living instead.

Jake was brought to the jailer's table where the light was better. John checked his pulse once more - it was still there, not strong, but better than it had been, then moved down. He removed Jakes shoe, felt his toes - they were cold to the touch. It would be touch and go, and there was nothing anyone could do. "Bring him to the dispensary. He'll have the best chance there."

Lestrade materialized at John's elbow and together they watched two cops take Jake up the stairs, then followed slowly behind. "You saved his life back there."

"Maybe. If he can survive the loss of the leg, he has a chance," said John, tired now that the incident was over. A stretcher had been fetched, and once Jake was on it, Jones told two men to bring him to the Dispensary. John turned to Lestrade. "What about down there? What's going to happen?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Probably nothing. Jake Williams is just an odd-jobs man. Nice enough fellow when he's not drunk. And Charlie..." Lestrade shook his head. "He's the son of Conor O'Connell. Boss of the Bay Burners. There's going to be trouble, so you take care when you're on the streets at night. I doubt you'll be involved, it's going to be a war on the police, but you might get caught in the periphery."

John nodded. The periphery, yes. He had been there, before. In India. He glanced down, caught a look at himself and shook his head. Spreading his arms out, he said, "Sorry. I'll get these back to you clean as, I promise."

"You'd better," joked Lestrade. "Otherwise I'll have to bring you in for damage to personal property."

John hoped Lestrade was joking - given what he had just witnessed downstairs. "I'd best be off home. My sister will be wondering where I am."

"Ah, yes, of course."

"Mock all you want, she doesn't nag when I'm out late. I'll return these to you as soon as possible."

Lestrade trailed John out of the office and down the hall. He kept half expecting to hear his name, so when he was called, he turned to Lestrade with a little private smile of amusement.

"Dr. Watson, I liked what you did down there," said Lestrade, shoving his hands in his pockets as if he was totally nonchalant. John was hardly fooled. "Is there any chance you would want to be on call here at Pleasant Street?"

"For the entire Station? I mean, I already consult you lot enough as it is," said John.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows and did a funny little head waggle. "Well - "

"Oi! Lestrade!"

John turned to find Anderson staring at him with obvious ill-grace.

"What the hell are doing in my clothes? And why are they so disgusting?"

"Ah, sorry- " John began, only to have Lestrade interrupt him.

"Anderson, fuck off. Dr. Watson'll bring them back before the end of the week."

Anderson somehow grew even taller, even more outraged. "Oh please, like he's a - wait. Dr. _Watson?!_ "

"As far as I'm aware," John said.

Anderson narrowed his eyes. "You're a doctor. A doctor named Watson."

"Ye-e-es…" John trailed off slowly. He had consulted with Lestrade on numerous occasions, so if Anderson did not know he was a medical doctor by now, then he was even more stupid than John had given him credit for.

"Some months ago you saw my daughter, Jane, and diagnosed her illness."

Oh right. Good lord, Anderson had a child. "Yes, of course, of course. How's she doing?"

Anderson nodded eagerly, grabbed for John's hand, saw what was on his hands and aborted the movement altogether, leaving him looking like a scarecrow in a checked navy suit. "Fine," he stuttered. "She's doing very well, growing like a weed. I can't thank you enough."

"I'm glad. Though to be honest, her behavior was fairly typical for someone her age."

"That's what I told you," Lestrade clapped Anderson on the back hard enough to stagger the other man. "My Nancy had a fit because she couldn't go to her grandmother's every day like she had when she was little. Didn't eat for three days. Found her the fourth morning, chewing on a leftover crust of bread in the kitchen."

"Well, if you'll pardon me," said John, holding up his hands. "I can't stand this any longer. Anderson, I'll bring these back as soon as possible. Lestrade, give me some time to think about your offer."

"Of course, of course. Take all the time you need. Just don't take too long."

Lestrade was one of those people who said just about everything in joking manner, which was guaranteed to confuse everyone who did not do the same. He had known similar men in the Army, and they were all right. In any case, John headed home, keeping his hands in his pockets so as not to scare anyone in the streets. He still got the odd look, but that was all right, no one pointed or screamed or fainted.

Once home, he began stripping in the kitchen, shouted, "Jingle!"

He was down to trousers and undershirt by the time she arrived, looking at him wide-eyed. "Not my anything, blood or otherwise, but they do need to be cleaned and returned as soon as possible."


	4. Chapter Four

The week passed quickly. John returned Anderson's clothing, had a drink with the man, Lestrade too, and told Lestrade that he was willing to work part time. Private patients would come first, of course.

Pleased with Lestrade's hearty welcome to the Boston police, John left the pub in a happy mood, full of good beer and a sandwich of cold roasted beef with plenty of mustard. His only patient had arrived late and left early, leaving the rest of John's afternoon free. He thought he might go for a walk, but he wanted a change of clothing first; though the day was sunny, he wanted a scarf and gloves and possibly a change of boots. 

He strode happily past Carter's Emporium, greeted Mrs. Carter and congratulated her on her son's marriage. He spoke to Mr. Wexler and inquired after the health of his mother, patted Jenny Gormley on the head and recommended her mother make another strong wash of oil of lavender and lard, and this time, wrap her head with the mixture on overnight for three weeks, and comb the hair thoroughly. Yes, of course he was sure Jenny did not have the nits now (he would not have touched her head otherwise) and no, lavender oil would not stain her skin purple.

By his watch it was two hours later when John returned from his walk. He was in a brilliant mood, having seen parts of Boston and bought a parcel of tea from a ship just come to shore. Harriet would be terrifically excited, she had written him many a time discussing her love of the Indian tea, and how much she had enjoyed each box he had sent to her. He was passing Bean's Market store when he heard his name called.

"Dr. Watson!"

The accent was English, the voice male and vaguely familiar. John stopped, turned to see who it was and ah, Mr. Holmes. He was finely dressed, as seemed to be his habit, and looked down at John rather imperiously. "Mr. Holmes, good to see you up and about," said John. "How's the wound?" 

"Healing well, thank you," he said, his eyes fixing on John's parcel. "Darjeeling, second flush, full tips."

John blinked. He too glanced at his package. There was nothing on the box, which was wrapped in plain paper, to suggest it was from India, or that it was indeed even tea. "How...how did you know all of that?"

Holmes smiled with no little superiority. "Easily deducible. You've just come from the docks, judging by the odor of fish from where you've stepped in gutting fluid, but you also smell of tea leaves and tannins. By the mud on your trousers you've been walking for some time, and by the slight spill of beer on your left cuff, you've also been to the pub."

"Extraordinary...quite extraordinary," said John, taken aback in the light of this information. 

"Darjeeling is the finest tea in the world, many would say."

"Yes, yes, it does have a fine flavour," said John. "I had a mate in the Army who preferred Russian Smoked."

Mr. Holmes grimaced. "Obviously he was delusional."

John chuckled. "You're not far off, there."

Mr. Holmes stared down at him, and John got the distinct impression that the man wanted something from him. But what? "Do you need further medical attention?"

Mr. Holmes remained silent, then abruptly said, "Yes. Yes, I do. If you're free?"

Well, not any more, but he had had his time to himself, had he not? "Of course. We're not far from the office at all."

As it turned out, Mr. Holmes was a chatty man. He pointed out the personal defects of many people John had never given consideration to. The worst part - by which John came to realize he was a terrible person for laughing at the misfortunes of others - was that Holmes clearly felt no need to be subtle in his commentary, earning himself dirty looks and several verbal threats.

Finally John had to know. "Have you ever thought of not saying such things out loud?"

Holmes frowned. "Why?"

John really had no response to Holmes that seemed...worthwhile. Answers such as 'because it's impolite' and 'don't be rude' made him sound like a schoolmaster, and g-d knew he had hated most of his schoolmasters.

"You can't come up with an answer, can you," mused Holmes, clearly pleased with himself. 

"Nothing that doesn't sound ridiculous in the light of day," John admitted, turning the corner to the house. He decided to bring Holmes through the front door rather than through the side door. Questioning himself about his decision a moment later, he had to wonder at his own motives for doing so. All right, he wanted to impress Holmes, for reasons he could hardly understand himself.

"Just this way," he said, leading Holmes into the office. He hung up his coat and jacket, washed his hands. He turned around to find Holmes already half-way undressed. Right. For such a slight-looking man, his musculature was very well developed. Back to the matter at hand, however. "If you'll just lie down on the table there, thank you."

The cut Holmes had received at Mrs. Hudson's establishment was indeed healing well. It had scabbed over and even that was beginning to peel away, pink, tender new skin underneath. John nodded to himself. "Yes, indeed, it's almost completely healed. You're very lucky that fellow's knife was cleaner than we had any right to expect."

Holmes shrugged. "I suppose. But shouldn't any frontiersman worth his salt keep a clean blade?"

John looked up from his notes, astonished that Holmes was ignorant of the current terminology. "'Frontiersman'? Yes, if you don't know any better. And don't call them that to their face, they don't like it."

Holmes sniffed, and continued to dress. 

John made one last notation before turning to face Holmes, who was engrossed in a slim volume of notes on the psychology of the Irish. "The previous Dr. Watson had interesting tastes in research. I was keeping that one on the chance it might have something of practical interest."

"About the Irish?"

"All right, I admit I wanted to read it for all of the salacious details."

Holmes snorted.

"Will you join me for a cup of the best tea in the world, probably?"

"I was hoping you would ask."

As he had suspected. Never mind the wound, Holmes had really just wanted to be invited for tea. Well, John could understand that. It was difficult, being a lone Englishman abroad. Oh, Boston was full of British men, but many of them were not people he wished to associate with if he did not have to. He had known many types of men in the Army, enough to steer clear of the ones who were bad seeds from afar. Having said that, he was no fool. He was willing and quite able to prove otherwise to anyone who thought they could one over on him. Besides, it seemed to him that many of the British men in America were of the roughest sort. Again, he had been in the Army, he was used to rough men, but at least in the Army they were made to conform to a certain standard. Here, there was nothing save what one made of one's self. It was both exhilarating, and frightening.

With Holmes following, John entered the parlour with fresh eyes. What would Holmes think of the plain yellow walls, the delicate lace curtains, the rather un-fussy decorations, which consisted of a vase of silk flowers and the Bennington pottery Clara had a fondness for, the stacks of books none of them could be bothered clearing away, not even Jingle? And what about the piano-forte they kept in here, rather than having a separate music room? Or Hartwell's wooden clacker wagon halfway under the sofa? And Eliza's slate, covered in her shaky chalk lettering, complimented by a drawing of the adults in the household, complete with one which had a shock of hair that could only be Jingle? The sofa was upholstered in cream floral chintz, the chairs in olive velvet. For the first time John saw the room as it was; shabby but comfortable. Fitted by people with aspirations greater than their wallets. He resolved to give Harriet more money. There was no reason why she shouldn't have a parlour worthy of any in Boston. 

Within reason, of course.

Still, it was with trepidation that he turned and offered Holmes a seat next to the fireplace. He took the other for himself, cleared his throat. "What brings you to America, Mr. Holmes? Fame and fortune?"

Holmes clasped his hands together in his lap, smiled grimly. "Neither, Dr. Watson. I am here on a criminal matter."

"Hence your meeting with Detective Lestrade at Mrs. Hudson's."

"Indeed."

Holmes brought his steepled hands to his mouth and eyed John. "What do you know about the Irish gangs of Boston?"

Not the question he had been expecting, but - "Just what everyone knows; don't mess with them."

"Pah! Hardly an answer. Be specific."

"Well, keeping in mind this is all hearsay from my fellow physicians, and what I've over heard from Lestrade and Anderson, there are several rival gangs. There are the Bay Burners, run by Conor O'Connell, and the Belfast Brigantines, though who runs them I don't know. I've heard a few names tossed around, Billy Kelly, Dylan Commiskey, Ennis McCartney" John shrugged. "Shouldn't you be asking Lestrade about this sort of thing?"

One of Holmes's eyebrows twitched upward in what might have been assent. 

"I'm sure if you'll ask around, you'll hear the same sort of thing. Murders, bribery, that sort of thing. They're very involved in capturing runaway slaves, and I've heard of no fewer than ten free men and women who've been stolen and sold back to plantations. My sister - "

Harriet came tripping into the parlour, Clara close behind her. She was still wearing her capelet and fur, her cheeks rosy from the cold. "John!"

John surged to his feet to take the box she was holding. "Harriet, Clara - "

"You'll never guess - " she began, before spying Holmes over John's shoulder. "Oh! Hello! I'm Harriet Watson, John's sister, and this is Clara, Clara Lausier."

Clara managed a nervous head bob, her eyes flicking to Harriet to John and then to Holmes, then back to Harriet. Honestly, thought John, she just was not suited to anyone who bore even the remotest similarity of her husband. Even he, who had never met the man, occasionally found he did something to make her back away and go directly to her room.

Holmes inclined his head in a classy little bow. "Delighted, I'm sure."

Harriet's eyes grew wider at the accent, and she glanced at John with the slightest puzzlement in her eyes.

"Mr. Holmes is a new patient of mine. I've also invited him for tea," which was certainly taking its sweet time in getting to the parlour. Where on earth was - "Ah, here it is now," said John, stepping out of of Jingle's way. The tea tray she had brought had a large, delicately fluted tea pot in celadon that was almost completely useless for tea. The pot had matching, handle-less cups and saucers. John was not fond of that particular set - he was going to have to do something drastic to it that would be looked at without suspicion. Perhaps they need to repaint the kitchen? Or maybe have a herd of horses run amok. Maybe all they really needed to do was set Hartwell and Eliza loose, which would pretty much be the same effect.

Jingle had had the foresight to bring extra cups and saucers, plus a plate of biscuits and slices of her famous molasses spice cake. John caught her giving Holmes a lingering up and down look and shooed her from. Before he closed the door, he asked, "What's for dinner?"

"Fish supper, fried green tomatoes, gravy, and sweet potato pie. I know that's your favorite," she added over her shoulder.

"It's all my favorite," he confessed. 

She snorted and shook her head, but what she failed to realize what that he wasn't lying. Jingle was an outstanding cook and he had never had a bad meal from her in the months he'd been living in the house. There was sisterly squealing behind him and he sighed, then turned to face whatever she was on about.

"John, I've managed to get Eliza into Miss Porter's!" cried Harriet, grasping his hands tightly.

"That's wonderful," he said, completely bewildered. "But isn't she a bit young?"

"Oh, they have a different program for young children," she said, dismissing his concern entirely. "But going there, she will learn all needs to continue on through the high school. And, what's more, the tuition is very low."

Thank G-d for small favors, then. John was well aware that his own school fees had almost been more than his father could afford. It had only been through his own good work that he had been able to win a place King Edward Grammar School. "Hartwell will miss her terribly."

"He will, but he'll get over it. Now he'll have you all to himself!"

John was aware his smile was a bit forced, yet Harriet seemed to not notice at all.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I couldn't contain the news to myself any more. Oh Clara, look, there's tea!"

Clara, who had divested herself of hat, coat, and gloves, nodded wearily, or so it appeared to John. She lifted the pot, looked at Mr. Holmes. "Will you take lemon or milk?"

"Neither for me, thank you. Two lumps will be sufficient."

John drew Harriet to the sofa and sat down. "Does Eliza really want to go, Harriet?" He wasn't as sure as she was. Of course, he was not a parent, and he wouldn't ever have the feelings of a mother, and yet, somehow Harriet's news about Eliza felt all wrong.

She shook her head, rolled her eyes. "You just feel that way because you've gotten used to her being underfoot."

"I don't really think that's fair. I like Eliza, and she likes me. We get along."

"Nonetheless, I'm her mother and I know best."

He couldn't argue with her, no matter how much he wanted to. Her happiness at the prospect of Eliza being gone didn't set well with him, either. There was only one root cause for it, and it sat in the bottle of whisky he knew was in the kitchen. He'd even grilled Jingle about it, once, and she had refused to answer his questions, sitting here stone-faced and angry. Angry at him, he had thought at the time, but now he thought she was angry at Harriet. She was definitely cool to Harriet on the days when Harriet had her...migraines. Or maybe that was because Jingle didn't like sick people. Which he found rather ironic.

John accepted a cup of tea from Clara, who gave him a sympathetic look. He was glad to see they shared the sentiment over Eliza. Clara didn't have children either, which made things.... He was never going to ask, but he did wonder if her marriage had ever been consummated. Harriet had intimated that not all had been well during Clara's marriage, which he found surprising. She was a beautiful woman, full of life and spirit - what man would not want such a wife at his side? Maybe she was just shy in the bedroom, plenty of women were. There was no shame in it, and damn all the men who made a woman feel such. Mary had certainly been eager enough.

"Mr. Holmes, will you be in Boston long?" asked Clara, sitting in John's vacated chair.

"I have no date of departure, no."

"I'm so sorry," said John, shaking his head at being so distracted by Harriet's news. "I don't believe I've introduced you - "

Clara frowned and shook her head. "John, don't worry, I _can_ introduce myself. And I already have, so there."

"Did you tell him who we met?" asked Harriet, reaching out to touch Clara's sleeve.

Oh g-d, not this story again. John didn't know how many times either woman had told him the tale, but he was well and truly sick of it. He couldn't remember what he had said to Mary the night they had met. All he had was a fleeting impression of a pale dress and dark hair. Funny, how time played tricks with the mind. The odd thing was that he still had her letters, locked safely away in a trunk at Uncle Alexander's estate. Amazingly, though their accommodation in Cawnpore had been ransacked as thoroughly as any other British soldier's, the letters had not been set fire to, as were Mary's drawings. Her drawings, her clothes, the markedly feminine knick-knacks lying about the place. Just little things, yet sentimental nonetheless.

"I heard him speak in Freeport," said Clara, pouring tea so enthusiastically that John feared for the lace tablecloth. "He is an orator of the highest ability. If I could vote for a man to be President, I would so for him."

"All the more reason for women to get the vote," said Harriet.

John had to glance away from the fondness in which they gazed at one another. It made him uncomfortable, that they were so willing to behave in such a manner not only in front of himself, but in front of Sherlock as well. He did not want his guest to think ill of his sister. Besides, it made him miss Mary with a desperate intensity that he was, quite frankly, tired of. Which he then felt guilty for, because wasn't one supposed to grieve for their spouse for a long time?

 

~*~

_\- Yours, Dr. J.H. Watson_

John finished his signature with a swirl underneath it, then sanded and folded the letter, slipped it into its envelope and wrote the address on the front. Despite what Mr. Backus said about his financial situation, John also read the papers, and the society pages were filled with Mr. Backus's exploits with the great and the good, never mind the Grand Tour he would soon be embarking on. 

Task completed, he decided what he needed was tea and a few biscuits, or better yet, a slice of Jingle's delicious Boston brown bread with a good slathering of butter. Maybe he would toast it, first…mm, yes, with coffee, that sounded even better. He shoved his chair back to its place a little hard, but not hard enough to not hear the knock on the street-side door. He cursed under his breath, because his last meal had been hours ago. At least it wasn't one of his regular patients, they all knew to come to the front door in order to get some sort of edible goodie from Jingle. Always meant there was less for him, dammit.

The knock came again, softly, and John hastened to the door before the person or persons took the chance to disappear. On the stairs were woman and child, in dress far too light for spring weather in New England. The child stood on the top step, shoulders high and arms wrapped around his torso, shivering hard, while the woman crouched or sat two steps below. Her gray bonnet was ragged around the brim, her fingerless gloves highlighting blue tinted fingernails.

"S-s-sir?" said the child, teeth chattering hard enough for John to hear them clacking together. He was not barefoot, yet he might as well have been. Printed paper peeped out of the top of his cloth shoes, his ankles. Looking him over quickly, John noted the holes in his tan canvas jacket, how the arms of it did not quite reach his wrists, that the cuffs of his trousers gaped at the top of his ankles. Newsprint peeped out of the top of his shoes - no, newspaper _formed_ his shoes, which which had then been overwrapped in hessian. 

John shook his head and stepped back, motioned the child and woman inside. He was more than ready for a hot meal, but could not in good conscience have eaten such knowing that they were freezing to death just outside the door. 

As soon as they were in he motioned them towards the chairs, then swiftly crossed the room to open the inner door and shouted down the hallway. "Jingle! I need tea and a meal for two!" 

Closing the door again, he returned to his two new patients. He removed a pair of scissors from his desk and knelt at the boy's feet. Looking up, he smiled and said, "I just want to make sure your feet are all right," he did not comment on the unsuitability of the boy's footwear; everyone in the room knew the reasons and it would only make them all more uncomfortable if he brought up the subject. His own memories of being judged for similar manner of dress still rankled.

After turning the lamps up again, John carefully cut away the hessian, which was not only filthy with muck, but frozen as well. Amazingly enough, the newspaper had been so thickly layered underneath the sole of the foot that the boy was going to escape hypothermia entirely. Shaking his head at the boy's luck, John checked his other foot and was more than happy to see that it too, was fine. He checked the boy's fingers, his nose and ears before moving on to the woman, who looked at him with irritating gratefulness, like an abused dog pleading with its master not to be hit. 

There was a quiet thud against the door, which then swung upon. Jingle came through pushing a cart laden with a tea tray and a dome-covered plate, eyeing both patients fiercely. John nodded, annoyed with her already disliking his patients when they had committed no crime save poverty. She was no one to take them to task. "Thank you, Jingle. That will be all," he said shortly, washing his hands in the basin he kept on the plant stand.

Wiping his hands dry on a towel, he turned back to the tray to see what she had provided.

Thick sandwiches of cured ham and cheese with some of Shambleau's sweet pickle relish, a dish of still steaming fried potatoes and onions, a goodly amount of molasses biscuits, strong black tea with milk and the new fangled sugar cubes of which Clara was so fond. He was surprised Jingle had given those to him, she had to have known he was in the office rather than the parlor. Well, no matter. It was food they could take with them when they headed out into the street. "Don't mind me," he said, sitting down to write his notes. "You tuck in, we'll talk after."

He made a point of writing for a long time, giving them a chance to eat. Although it disturbed him, he did not ask them to stop wolfing down their food. All in all, they actually ate less than he expected. As they slowly began on the biscuits, he put his pen away and faced them. Crossing his legs and resting one arm on the desk, he said, "Would you care to tell me your names?"

They glanced at one another, and then the boy spoke. "I'm Dan'l, she's Polly. She don't speak none."

"And what can I do for you, Daniel?" asked John, already suspecting exactly what they wanted, and pondering what he could do about it at this time of the night.

"Heard you a doctor, heard you help with tickets?"

John nodded slowly. 

Yes...he could do that. He stood up, headed towards the inner door. "Wait here."

Jingle was waiting for him in the hallway, sitting on the stairs. She popped up as soon as he closed the office door. "They can't stay here."

"Of course not," he said, agreeing with her wholeheartedly. "I'm taking them to Dr. Smythe's."

"You'll be careful, now, Dr. Watson," she said, scooting around him to get to his boots first. "There's nasty men about tonight."

Bemused, he accepted her help first with his boots, and then his coat and cane. "We'll be fine."

She shook her head. "I don't care about _them_. Miss Harriet and Miss Clara would be distraught if anything happened to you."

"I know," he said soberly. "I'll be back before they have a chance to miss me. Are there boots available?"

She pursed her lips and shook her head, but brought the boots to him anyway.

She could disapprove all she wanted. He had taken to stocking old, sturdily repaired boots for such clients and he was not about to let some child lose his feet because Jingle was too damned stingy. One more time into the office, boots in hand. He stuffed the toes of the boots with more paper, had Daniel put them on and reassure him of their fit (too big) and level of warmth (better than expected). There was nothing he could do for the woman. Harried would kill him if he removed even the rattiest pair of gloves from her wardrobe and he wasn't about to rumble through Clara's things.

John walked as fast as he could. He found the cane less help than he thought he would need, and wished he had left it at home. Daniel and Polly kept up, which was good, he had no intention of being detained. 

Some twenty minutes later John knocked at the back door of Dr. Smythe's house. He glanced around, grateful that what people they had seen on the streets had seemed just as eager to ignore them as they had been to be ignored. A dangerous time of the day, in a dangerous time of the year. Every day had its obstacles, but John never felt easy when he was without his medical case. It made his business obvious even to the most beastly of men. In truth, the most times he had been bothered, or a bystander needed to fetch the police, had been by himself, with only his cane as a defensive weapon. With two other people to defend, however, things became a little uneven.

The door opened. Hetty, Dr. Smythe's servant, looked at John's companions and motioned them in. John himself remained outside. "Sir?"

"Thank you, Hetty, but I must be going home. Give Dr. Smythe my regards, and I'll see him at the regular time on Thursday."

"Yes, Dr. Watson."

"Oh, and here," he brought a dollar coin from inside his jacket and handed it to her with a slight smile. "For the trouble."

The coin disappeared into the depths of her apron, and then the door was shut in his face. not quite slammed. That was that, his part was done. 

The slog back home was eased by a group of men lighting the street lamps. Night had yet to fall, but the day was winter dark despite it being spring.

Once he was back home, he changed his shoes for what felt like the umpteenth time and eased his feet into their welcoming leather slippers. He was quite tired, and very hungry to boot. Heading into the kitchen, he only had a moment's warning from the corner of his eye before he had an armful of sister.

"Oh John, you'll never guess what's happened!" Harriet cried. She pulled away to put the kettle on the stove. "Only but the best news!"

John humored her with a smile, because it seemed like this was good news, if the expression on her face was anything to go by. 

"John, you'll never believe it!" cried Clara, clasping her hands together. "I've had a letter from Olimphe!"

"Good news, I hope?" he said, backing away from the bread box as Jingle batted at his hands. Good Christ, he actually _was_ capable of getting his own damned dinner.

"Go sit," said Jingle, pointing at the table with the knife.

"Yes, ma'am," he muttered in turn. His leg was painful anyway, he needed to sit down.

"John, listen," said Clara, taking the chair opposite his own. 

"Wait, wait," he said, taking a plate loaded with bread, cheese, apple butter, and a slice of cold ham from Jingle. "Tell me again who she is?"

"My Aunt. Well, Aunt by marriage. She's from France, but lives in Montreal now. She's going back to France this summer and has invited me and a companion along! Isn't that exciting!"

Mouth full of bread and butter, John nodded. He hoped it came across enthusiastically, because he was really wondering who she was planning on bringing. Aunt Olimphe's letter did not specify 'married companion and her children without a nanny'. Assuming Clara was thinking of Harriet in the first place. 

"Of course I'm bringing Harriet," said Clara eagerly. "And it would be good for Eliza and Hartwell to see Europe, don't you think?"

"When were you planning on leaving?" he asked, spreading a thick layer of apple butter on the cheese. 

Clara's smile fell a little at his question. "If we're to go, we'd have to leave soon, perhaps even in the next two weeks."

"Two weeks!" Frowning, he put his food back on the plate. "I can't just close the practice, Clara. I'll need to find a locum, inform all of my patients."

"Oh!" she shook her head. "Oh no, John, you needn't come along at all! Mr. Theodore will be escorting us to London."

"What? London, I thought you were going to France?" he asked, not quite believing what he had just heard.

"To London first, to speak to the Anti-Slavery Society, and then on to France, to Paris!"

"Clara..." he began, unsure of what to say next. The journey across the Atlantic was long and dangerous at any time of the year, and even though summer had yet to begin. stories abounded of ships that disappeared during the winter Westerlies. Even as the thought occurred he knew he was being ridiculous. He had met Mr. Theodore and his wife, Clara and Harriet would be in perfectly acceptable company. And temperate company, for the most part, as well, so Harriet would have no chance to fall into harm's way. He could give her allowance to Clara, in case she should run out of money. Although of course there was other respite to fall back upon if necessary. Uncle Alistair and Aunt Alice still lived at Saughton, and Cousin Laurence lived in Brighton. There _was_ family to call upon, should Harriet need it.

Clara looked down at her hands, her brow furrowed and John was immediately sorry for his lack of enthusiasm. "Look. Let me think about it. I need to discuss this with Harriet as well."

"Of course," mumbled Clara, her face beginning to pinken as she rose. "Good night, John."

"Good night," he replied, watching her leave the room with heavy steps. 

Harriet lingered behind long enough to hiss, "Well done, John, well done!" in his direction before scurrying to catch up to Clara.

He looked down at his plate, the food no longer as appetizing as it had been only a few minutes earlier. John sighed heavily.

"It'll all be fine, sir," said Jingle, hovering at his elbow with a small tea pot and a china cup with a chip in the gold rim. She poured a little into the cup, waited for his approval on its color before filling the nearly to the brim in the American fashion.

"I'm glad you're so confident," he said acidly, wincing as he heard himself. "Sorry, that was uncalled for."

"You have reasons why they shouldn't go?"

No. No he did not. In fact he had no idea why he was even obstructing the journey, he had no claim upon either one of them save brotherly love. He was not Clara's husband, nor did he control his sister, they were independent women and could do as they liked. His sudden anxiety made little sense. 

"Miss Clara is a strong woman, sir. She knows how to handle important things. And Miss Harriet has gotten much better since going her here at the house. Sir."

Oh god, enough. John waved her away. Honestly, did no one see how difficult it was, to balance one's afflicted sister, her companion, his work? He ate the rest of his meal quickly, drained his teacup, had one other and then he too was off to bed.


	5. Chapter Five

Early afternoon, John decided, was the perfect time for a slice of cake and a cup of something hot between patients. Mr. Van Dien had done nothing but talk about the problems he had with his wife for the whole of his appointment, and Mr. Mulligan was due to come in less than an hour. So, cake and coffee. He was sure he had smelled spices on his way out of the house yesterday morning, and with any luck Jingle had made something delicious.

He practically floated down the hall to the kitchen, anticipating deliciousness and a full stomach. When he walked into the kitchen, three dark heads turned his way. Confronted with surprised and suspicious faces, he immediately halted, one hand still on the doorknob.

Jingle rose from the table, smoothing down her apron. "Yes, sir?"

"I was just wondering if there was any cake?" John asked, glancing at the woman and girl, who had gotten to their feet. Their eyes were wide, their shoulders hunched; he could feel the tension rising from them an sought to ease it. "No please, sit. I won't be here long."

Even as he spoke, Jingle was slicing a wedge of cake from the loaf on the counter. "Any chance of coffee?"

Jingle nodded and put the cake on a plate, brought it to him with a stern look. "I'll bring you some."

Dismissed, John took his cake and returned to the office, only realizing once he shut the door that he had no fork. Well, that was what fingers were for.

"John?"

"Yes?" John swiveled in his seat with a smile. 

Clara peered around the door, saw no one was with him and opened it fully. She was dressed for a walk, in a mustard yellow dress and a brown plaid overcoat with rose pink ribbon at the neck and sleeves. Her hat and shoulders were lightly furred with snow. "Are you busy?"

"Nothing that can't wait," he said, feeling inordinately happy to see her. He put his pen down to give her his fully attention, amused by how much he had missed her. How much he had missed all of them, in truth. "What can I help you with?"

She glanced over her shoulder and back at him. "Well, I was wondering if you could maybe help my friend? Or give him some advice?"

Oh, a medical matter. John stood and approached her, as it was apparent the person wanting helping was shy. "Of course...hello?"

The man - the boy? - standing a little ways from the door was a negro, worrying the hat he was tightly gripping. 

"Joe, this is my friend Dr. Watson. He can help you, I'm sure of it."

Ye-es... John waited a beat, and when no further comment was forthcoming, said, "Joe, is it? Why don't you come in and I'll check your vitals. Clara, would you make us some tea?"

"Of course!" she said, smiling happily at him, and then at Joe. "I'll be back in a jiffy."

Joe hesitantly followed John into the exam room. He looked around the room as if he were expecting...what, John didn't know. But clearly Joe was uncomfortable, which in turn made John uncomfortable as well. 

John sat down and gestured towards the chair next to the exam table. "So, what brings you here today."

"Miss Clara said I should come, sir."

John nodded, trying to see if he could spot the problem without having to ask. "Was the injury work related?"

Joe's brows drew down, and as he stared at John, it seemed to John that Joe was trying to tell him something without actually using the words. Which was not at all helpful.

John brought out the stethoscope and commenced with the exam. Heart rate a little fast, but Joe was nervous. A warm forehead, nothing out of the ordinary considering he was dressed for cold weather and was now inside a warm house. Hands cold, plenty of scars, callouses in all the expected places. Finally John sat back down on his chair and eyed Joe. "There's nothing wrong with you."

At this point there was a knock on the door and Clara came in bearing the tea tray, laden not only with pots and cups and bowls, but plate of sliced most Boston Brown Bread studded with raisins. She put it on the side table and poured coffee into three cups. Handing one to Joe, she said to John, "Sorry, there wasn't quite enough tea. Can you get more tomorrow?"

"Jingle can get some if she's going out," he said, helping himself to a slice of bread and slathering it in butter, still hungry despite the cake he had just eaten.

"She's not in the kitchen. And how's Joe?" she asked, smiling at her charge.

"He's fine. A little thin, but otherwise healthy."

Clara nodded, but it seemed to John that she found him wanting for some reason or another. The way she was looking at him, like a dog willing its master to read its mind. John finished his bread and took a sip of coffee, trying to think of the best way to get her to tell him what it was, since she clearly did nt want to say anything in front of Joe.

"John."

He raised enquiring eyebrows. "Clara."

"We need your help," she paused, gaze flicking to Joe for a moment. "Joe needs your help."

Ah, here it came. "So I gathered. What kind of help? I don't know many people here, yet, I don't know if I can find him work."

"No...John, you know I have friends in the Abolitionist Society. I am a member of it, and I have long wished to be more...effective in the organization."

Oh, John was beginning to get a bad feeling about this. Given how Joe stared at Clara, his face shuttered yet watchful, John had a pretty good idea of what she was about to ask him to do. In fact - "Joe's a runaway slave."

Relief flooded her features. "Oh yes, John, yes! Can you help us? Can you find a way to get him north to Canada?"

John shook his head. "Do you know what could happen if you were found out?"

"This is the north!" cried Clara, stomping her foot for emphasis. 

John shot to his feet, rubbed one hand through his hair. "Yes, it is the north, but in case you hadn't noticed there are still slaves here! There are still gangs searching for runaways, or haven't you noticed the coffles in the streets, the men being loaded on to boats? Do you think I want us to be burned out or sued by some slave-owner for stealing his property, or worse, selling it to some unknown buyer when really, all we've done is sent them on their way back to a plantation?"

"But no one has to know!"

"Why are you asking me this, anyway? Why aren't you going to your Abolitionist friends instead?" 

"Because they think me to young, too inexperienced to do anything!"

"Well," said John, throwing up his hands in despair. "They're certainly right about that!"

"Joe needs our help, John," she pleaded. "Just this once...can you help _me_ , just this once?"

Hands on his hips, John stared sightlessly at the floor. She was right, he could not let her walk out of here with a black man on her own, not after everyone had seen her come in with him. She would need the cover of a medical professional, for why else would a single woman, because she was for all rights a single woman in spite of the gold ring on her finger, be alone with such a stranger? Why would she bring him into her house, if not to see a doctor? Especially since he was not a tradesman?

He rolled his head on his shoulders, thinking it through. The obvious answer was to bring Joe to Dr. Smythe, but John was leery of doing so. If he brought too many negroes to Dr. Smythe, people might become suspicious. Maybe…maybe Dr. Thomas? "All right," he said. "Clara, I want you to stay here."

"John, no! I came in with Joe, the least I should do is go with him."

Oh g-d, this was going to be one of the times she was going to be stubborn. The sooner Joe was out of the house, the better. "Fine, fine. Joe, are you ready to run if I give the word?"

"Yes, sir," answered Joe, his voice higher pitched than John was expecting. Joe got to his feet, glancing briefly at the tea tray.

John hurriedly smeared the bread with a thick glob of butter, topped it with another slice of the same, wrapped it in his handkerchief and handed it to the other man. "Tuck that away for later. Now, let me get my coat and bag."

Once John was dressed for the spring weather, they left by the office door. Traffic for the time of day was average, and as far as John could tell, no one was giving them a second look. He had heard tales, however, of spies amongst crowds and of course, given his own wartime experiences, he knew better than to think there was zero possibility of being caught with a runaway slave. Yet he also needed them to look as if this was a normal outing, just a doctor and his companions going to visit a dentist, perhaps to get work done on the newly hired hand, so he kept to the main streets, slushy and mucky though they were.

They reached Dr. Thomas's office nearly thirty minutes later, having stopped at a dry goods store to buy a bag of peanuts and dried, sliced apples. John could have kicked himself for not supplying Joe with a small stash of food beyond bread and butter before they left the house. 

Dr. Thomas took Joe without question. His demeanor did not change towards Clara or John, though John felt incredibly awkward asking him for help. Still, he had Clara to protect and if this was the only way he could do it, so be it. If anything, Dr. Thomas seemed pleased that John had thought of him in the first place.

"I'll see what I can do," said Dr. Thomas, ushering Clara down the hallway, John following behind him. "And you should stop by more often, have that tooth looked at."

"Ah, yes," muttered John, abruptly aware of the wiggle in his right rear molar. It had been like that for years, ever since that unfortunate encounter with a Cossack's rifle butt during the Battle of Inkerman. At least he had come out the victor in that little spat. 

At the front door, Clara turned to Dr. Thomas with a happy smile. "Thank you so much, Dr. Thomas. I was at my wit's end, wondering what to do. When John suggested your name, my fondest hope was that Joe should find a place of employment at the very least."

Dr. Thomas bowed ever so slightly. "It was my pleasure."

As Clara headed down the stairs, John mouthed _Thank you_ at Dr. Thomas, who in turn smiled and shook his head. John was grateful, fully aware he owed the man a great favour. 

They were halfway down the block when Clara said, "Oh, can we stop somewhere? I'm hungry."

"Yes, let's."

They stopped a restaurant John had been to before. It was respectable enough for Clara, though he dared think Clara would have been just as happy in some dive. Still, the food was decent and the coffee was good. More to the point, it was usually crowded.

John ordered cheese sandwiches and potato soup and coffee and waited until the waiter stepped away before leaning close to Clara. "Don't do that again."

Clara turned to him from her perusal of the room, brows drawn down. "What do you mean?"

"Do not put yourself in a position to be harmed. Anything could have happened to you - anything!"

"But it didn't," Clara said, smiling and shaking her head. "It didn't, John, thanks to you."

"I don't want you doing that again. Not without talking to me first."

"So you're willing to do it again?"

Too late, John realized what he had said. "What I meant was that if you want to help someone else, I will, I'll help, dammit!"

Clara looked down at her hands as heads began to turn in their direction.

Flustered, John lowered his voice. "Clara, I'm serious. This is no joking matter. These are dangerous times and you are not the only person who could be affected."

"You think I don't know that?"

"I really don't," he answered, straightening as their sandwiches were served.

They ate their meal in silence. Though she said nothing, John could feel Clara pouting. God knew he was used to it enough from Harriet, when they were children. 

After, they returned home, still in silence. By this time John was quite fed up with Clara and was happy to see the back of her as went directly to the office. There were two letters for him, one from Mrs. Dunphy, that her family no longer required his services, and another from Mrs. Galloway, saying the same, almost to the word. He shrugged, made the notations in his patient log, and burned both the letters in the fire. No point in keeping them.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a Christian, and based the title of this story on the [song](https://youtu.be/C1szphOU1E0) of the same name. Seemed appropriate, seeing as John is a doctor and all. Besides, having looked up Ezekiel, however, what I quoted at the beginning could certainly apply to the slaves, I think.


End file.
